The Cake Hall of Shame - A Prelude.......

I'm not a cake maker. At all. Icing, lollies and I go together about as well as the red tutu, pink striped stockings and heavy black boots the Honey Girl tries to wear to church each Sunday!

But each time a birthday comes around for one of my kids, I lovingly let them choose a cake, and then painstakingly set about ruining it.

Seriously - tonight's effort will be approximately Cake #35 (or #70 if you include the "just for the family, not for party/public viewing efforts!

) and I'm still cursing whoever read the freaking Rainbow Fish to my Preppie because now I have to turn him into a cake. That is symetrically and anatomically correct, with the correct shade of scales and he has to sparkle.

And I still can't figure out how to even make the FISH shape!! I really have not improved in all these years of trying.

The very first cake I made, when my firstborn

turned one, was meant to be a cupcake bunch of balloons. I got myself tangled up in an utter mes

s of icing, ribbons and tears, before the Rooster came along and, well, pretty much created the entire masterpiece in about 10 minutes with some icing sugar, sticky tape and a hot knife.

And yet each and every year at Birthday Cake Creation o Clock, the Rooster is nowhere to be found. I'm beginning to wonder if he does this

on purpose - perhaps it's amusing to watch your beloved wife cover the kitchen in icing and sugar, whilst managing to pretty much miss the cake entirely and produce something that looks like

...well, anything other than what it was intended to look like.

Anyway, as I was reminscing about previous cake attempts, I thought I might share my Spectacular Failures of All Time. There were plenty to choose from (about 35 actually!) but here are the very worst of the worst. The Cake Hall of Shame ~ a Prelude!

And can you believe - my almost 9 year old has requested an exact replica of Cake #2. Apparently HE thought it was awesome. I suspect his 9 year old eyes and perception might be a little more critical - and therefore disappointed - than the 6 year old who thought it was a good creation!

This one was meant to be a skull - in ice cream.

Awesome idea, dreadful execution ......

And here's the Rabbit's current favourite - meant to be a street scene where Spiderman and Venom clash ..... except Venom is larger than the entire street, and the building (ie the whole cake!) is about to collapse. (Spidey is hanging by a piece of cotton from a gob of blue tak on the ceiling - I TOLD you this was not my forte!)

That's just a warm up ..... there are more to come soon!!

Wisdom from the Front Line

It's school holidays.
Which means instead of the mad rush to be out of bed, dressed (apparently I'm not to do the school run in my PJs and slippers!), breakfasted, with bags and lunches packed and out the door by 8am; we get to slowly spread Cheerios across the lounge, slop milk on ALL the kitchen benches, sit on the stairwell to munch toast (so both TVs are in viewing range and you can watch 2 programs at once - my kids are high tech I tell you!) and regularly run up to Mum's room to tell on one of your siblings for some minor infraction of the rules whilst simultaneously breaking about three or four of them yourself.
(Actually this is a bit fun for me - I lie in bed and wait for the next installment and they do not fail me. Every morning at least one child comes in to dob on a sibling for "eating/drinking on the carpet". To get to my room they have to cross said carpet. And they always ALWAYS arrive with a bowl of cereal or a drink of juice in hand. The fun is in lying there patiently and silently and listening to how abhorent their sibling's behaviour and blatant disregard for the rules is, and just waiting for that lightbulb moment when they look down at their own hand and remember the bowl/cup/plate there!)

Anyway, it's holidays. Hour upon glorious hour of drawing, cutting, pasting, play dough, bickering, quarrelling, arguing, throwing things, stealing paper from the printer because Mum surely won't notice we took another three hundreds pieces, drew on them and then put them back, eating anything and everything there is in the cupboard not because we're hungry but because it's there ..... you get the idea.

But I do love that every time we spend a few days together, I learn something new about my delightful offspring. Some quality time is a fantastic way to discover something about each of them, and they never fail to disappoint.

Here's a couple of today's gems, where I just listen quietly and try not to laugh too loudly until they've finished the discussion and left the room. (and then I run off and post it on the internet!)


The Rabbit knows all about childbirth apparently. I did post some time ago about the indepth discussion we had about how Boombah got into my tummy, and how badly that conversation went.
He has not mentioned it since. Not throughout the entire next pregnancy or subsequent 10 months of having another new baby in the house. Not a word. Not a squeak.
I figured I had suitably traumatised him well into his teens, and I'd not need to field any more baby related questions or explanations until about 2017.
Today he told me all about when a baby is born and a doctor immediately smacks it on the back or bottom. Because it's naughty to come out of there and hurt its mother doing so, so the doctor smacks it to make sure it doesn't do it again!


The Honey Girl sang me a beautiful song today. It was one she has learnt at school and sung at Assembly for the other grades to hear. She sings with expression and emotion, and loves to add some hand actions in when possible as well.
Today she sang "I'm Gonna Clap My Hands". And with much feeling and spiritual conviction she belted out that "You are the best friend, that I could ever know.
I lift my hands to You cos you died for me upon a cross.
You took away my THINGS and SHARED 'EM" ......

I thought maybe she meant "sin and shame" - but no, she assured me - Jesus takes away your things and shares them around with others if you're naughty. And off she wandered, continuing to sing about Jesus taking away her things and sharing 'em!

And then she told me that it was rude to stick up your middle finger. Like this. But God could do it because God can do anything. And He'd do it. Like this.


Did I mention we send this delightful child to a private and very Christian-based, Bible-focussed school?!! I do think I might take a peek at the curriculum again - what are those school fees being spent on?!!

Long Time, No Post!

So it's been a while since I blogged. A long while.
I have a really good reason for that, I promise. And that really good reason is this -

I am absolutely and utterly exhausted. Tired. Worn out. Run down. In desperate need of sleep.

(Plus I always seem to have a baby on my lap which makes my 2 finger stype typing a little more challenging than normal. It's a gamble if I choose to use fingers on both hands at the same time - the more I type, the greater the lean Gavin gets up, and the faster I attempt to hit those keys and get a few more words in before I have to stop him from tumbling off my lap. So I prop him up against me, find his almost-non-existant centre of gravity again - and we do it over. Add in frequent dummy replacements, knee jiggling and back-patting to encouraging burping, and it all just gets too difficult and I refuse to type anything longer than a few status updates on Facebook!)

But I can actually prove that I truly am super-tired at the moment. And my proof does not involve endless stories of multiple baby-led night wakings; breastfeeding 3 year olds who have named my "girls" after his favourite trains (Thomas on the left and Percy on the right!); nightmares about Iggle Piggle and Buzz Lightyear; bed wettings; toilet training the Boombah and a husband who decides to disappear to the wilds of Africa right when the time comes to teach Son #4 to use the toilet ........

No, my proof of total Mummy exhaustion is a short tale about a happening on the highway today. (it's all safe and ends well, fear not!) Whether it's true or not, I'll leave to your own discretion -I'll share the story but am not willing to totally humiliate myself by stating it is fact....just in case the Rooster reads this (they actually do HAVE internet in Africa, sometimes!) and decides to use it as fodder for stirring me up for the next, oh, 40 years or so!

So.... I MAY have been taking a bit of a trip today, which MAY have required me to spend about an hour and a half on the road, in multi-laned traffic. (not my forte)
And I MAY have been driving quietly along, minding my own business, when I noticed a truck beside me wanting to merge into my lane. Now I MAY have braked to let him do so before realising that he was also towing a large trailer and the options were either he was going to merge successfully - into me - or I was going to need to move.
Now I MAY have been reasonably quick thinking at this moment, and indicated my intnetion to switch lanes and give the truck some space; and I MAY have moved over quickly and let the truck merge.

At this point, the truck driver MAY have waved his arm out the window to me, to acknowledge my quick thinking and speedy reflexes, and in gratitude for my foresight and efforts to ensure his safe and timely journey continued.
I MAY have appreciated the gesture and smiled back, hoping he could see me in his mirror, as I was slightly behind him.

He MAY have waved again out his window at me, which MAY have left me thinking he did not see my beaming smile. So I MAY have nodded to him.

And I MAY have driven along merrily for a few moments, grinning and nodding at this friendly truck driver, and thinking how lovely this whole situation was. I MAY have felt a little like I was in a convoy - me and my "truck" (OK, so it's really an 8 seater people mover, but it FEELS like a truck when it comes to parking!) being accepted with open arms and friendly gestures by truckers across the country.
I MAY have imagined my new friend was on his 2 way radio right now, sharing his good fortune to merge in front of me with his colleagues, and telling them to keep an eye out for me and my blue bus, and ensure I also experienced a safe and timely journey.

I MAY have had my thoughts interrupted when I noticed he'd waved again. So, not wanting to appear rude, I MAY have smiled even more broadly and waved back. Enthusiastically.

Picture for a moment - a glass eyed mother commandeering a blue bus that is empty of children but overflowing with carseats, prams, McDonalds wrappers, plastic toys and books; grinning like the Chesire cat and waving enthusiastically at the truck driving in the lane beside her, nodding her head and mouthing the words "no worries mate"!






And at about that moment, I MAY have actually realised the driver of the truck was actually enjoying a cigarette, and was regularly reaching his arm out the window to tap off the ash!!

My SuperPower

Boombah is nearly 3, and at the end of the day (with no day nap) he's tired and cranky and a little contrary. I gave him a previously-agreed-on toasted cheese sandwich for dinner. As he took the plate, he spied the cupcakes on the bench.

And promptly handed back the sandwich.
"No sandwich - cake" he said

"Sandwich first, then cake" I replied

"No sandwich. Cake!" he demanded and tried to reach for a cupcake.
And so we began the debate over the relative benefits of a cupcake, compared to a nutritional advantage of a toasted sandwich.

Every time he insisted on "No sandwich, cake!" he stretched and reached a little further across the bench. And every time I responded with "Sandwich, then cupcake" he stopped stretching in exasperation and acknowledged me with a withering glance.

Until finally his stretching paid off, and his little fingers laid themselves upon the lone cupcake sitting within reach on the bench. His grasp closed around it and he smirked cheekily at me.
"No sandwich. Cake" he assured me, in that tone only a smug toddler who just "won" can perfect.

He licked the icing, while I started arguing and cajoling with enthusiasm in the background of his chocolate heaven haze.
"Mmmmm Boombah's cake" he muttered and walked off.

"Boombah, if you eat that cake, there's no dessert tonight. Sandwich, then cake."
"Boom's cake"
Another lick.

If you eat the cake Boombah, there's no chocolate milk either". I had pulled out the big guns now. I was getting desperate. I was fast approaching the need to either let him go, or instigate the wrangle-the-toddler-to-the-ground-and-forcibly-remove-the-offending-item maneuvre. And without a strong cuppa tea and a few moments on Facebook I was unable to decide which way to go.

"Boombah's cake".
More licking and pretty much complete oblivion to the outside world now. He had cake. For dinner. The world may have imploded upon itself and he would not know nor care.
Cake. For dinner.

"Boom, do you want gulky tonight?" I asked
And I was rewarded with a brief expression of recognition of the magic word.
"Gulky" is his term for breastmilk.

I repeated the question and he slowed his sugar-inhalation to look at me, I assume to ensure I am seriously placing the weight of this dilemna upon his weak and inexperienced shoulders.

"If you want gulky Boom, you need to have the sandwich. Then the cake. Then gulky.
No sandwich, no gulky."
And for good measure I did my top-lifting, boob-extending, but-totally-appropriate-for-a-toddler jiggly dance in his direction.

Except he was not there. He was already running to the kitchen to place the cupcake on the bench, and take his sandwich to the table for eating.

So how's that?! My breastmilk is better than chocolate, apparently!!

To Time Out or Not to Time Out..... What Was the Question?!

I am finally mastering the intricate art of shaping disciplinary measures to suit my individual children's personalities and responses.

Where once a loud demand of "Time Out!" accompanied by a firmly pointed finger in the direction of some remote and boring location within the house, pretty much covered everyone for any and every misdemeanor, I've finally learnt how ineffective this is. (Completely aside from the fact that, after 6 children, I've got no memory cells left at all and regularly forget I sent someone off for some time of reflection t until the next meal when I hear a meek voice call out for permission to finally leave Time Out!)

Being placed into the cot stops Boombah in his tracks (since, unlike his siblings, he is almost 3 and still hasn't figured out he can climb out if and when he wants to!). Removal of privileges (and by "privileges" I mean time on the computer) works well for Pants (and by "works well" I mean utterly devastates him). Screen bans are generally effective for the Rabbit. And some time to calm down followed by a detailed, clear explanation of the problem and other more appropriate behaviour works for Tubby.

But I cannot figure out the HoneyGirl. If I put her in Time Out, she finds some creative way to turn her punishment into mine - like drawing on the floor with a random pencil she grabbed on the way past; or pulling bits of paint off the wall where she is sitting; or sneaking past Time Out and into my room where she jumps on my bed, runs the tap in my ensuite, tries on all my shoes and then silently returns to Time Out and pretends she has been sitting there all along.

If I take away screen time or privileges, she waits til one of the boys are enjoying the computer or the Wii and looks suitably uninvolved and innocent until I leave the room, and then manipulates them into "sharing" their turn with her. And then comes running to me to "dob" on her brothers for not sharing or doing it her way!

And so most recently I decided to try the approach that works on Tubby - a nice friendly chat about the matter. A detailed discussion on the reasons why her behaviour was inappropriate. An open forum on why I made the decision I did and why she needs to respect this.
Quite simply - a good old fashioned lecture.

The HoneyGirl likes my reading glasses. She likes to get them out, hold them, sit on them, put her fingerprints all over them, spit on them, wipe them, drop them on the floor, step on them and most of all, wear them. Given she has perfect eyesight, and my glasses aren't designed to cope well with rough treatment, she is not allowed to touch them.
And so of course, she does.
Often.

I put them up high and attempt to hide them from her, but that usually results in her finding them anyway, and/or me completely forgetting where I put them and thus being unable to use them anyway. Until the HoneyGirl finds them to play with again!

The Rooster walked past her at the computer recently and saw that, once again, she had my glasses out. And on. So he reminded her of the rule about Mummy's glasses and told her to put them away.
Upon his return some few minutes later, he noticed she was still wearing them and likely engaging in all manner of optometry assessments as she placed first one grubby finger on a lens and looked through the other side, and the changed lens, and then did a bit of a spit clean before starting her experiments all over again.

Noting that not only was his delightful daughter breaking a well-known house rule, she was also now actively disobeying him, the Rooster did what any responsible and concerned father would do - he told the HoneyGirl he was going to tell Mum.

And so he did.

Once I had fully grasped the whole situation, including the death stare the HoneyGirl had given her father as she'd narrowed her eyes, creased her brows and spat through gritted teeth "Don't. You. Dare", I thought it would be a good opportunity to try the new approach.

I sat down with my daughter and my glasses, got nice and close so we were speaking face to face, and explained all things "optometrical" to her. How eyes work - or in my case, don't work. What reading glasses do. How they help me but might hurt her. How perfect her vision is. How important good vision is. What we use eyesight for. What a true gift eyesight really is. How it might feel to be blind.

Not long after we started this detailed discussion, I noticed the HoneyGirl's expression - it was that of someone who had something pressing to share.
I was encouraged. She was taking this in, wanting to engage and discuss with me. So I continued teaching her and explaining in detail why it was so important she did not touch my glasses or wear them. It was all going so well.

After some minutes of me explaining and describing, and the HoneyGirl patiently awaiting her turn to respond and share some insight on the matter, I paused. And invited her to share her thoughts, since she'd obviously been waiting to express some wisdom since the conversation began. I focussed my attention on her, and waited for her to speak.

The HoneyGirl took a deep breath, looked me square in the eyes and declared
"Mum, when you started talking, you accidently spat on me."

Drivetime Musings

I overheard an interesting discussion in the car on the way home from the supermarket. (where I may or may not have purchased packaged rubbish for dinner tonight!)

It was about fish fingers. And where they came from. Tubby was adamant they came from fish, mushed up and frozen in big blocks and the cut into finger-shaped pieces.

The Rabbit and Pants argued vehemently that they were from fish with fingers, which were removed and crumbed and sold as fish fingers.

(At this point I should explain that perhaps the most responsible and mature thing for a parent to do would be to intervene and guide a discussion on sea creatures, anatomy of a fish and the processing of our food. I find it infinitely more entertaining and amusing to turn the radio off and listen intently - I LOVE where these discussions go!
One time (some years ago) I quietened the music on the way to church, to listen to a game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" between Tubby and the Rabbit. Tubby was winning continually and I was curious as to how the Rabbit would react to this, and if Tubby would realise he needed to make some allowances for his younger brother.
I need not have worried, as shortly thereafter I overheard the regular "Rock, paper SCISSORS!!" followed immediately by Tubby exclaiming "WHAT is THAT meant to be??!"

I glanced into the rear view mirror to see the Rabbit grinning proudly, with his pointer fingers formed into a cross kind of shape.
"I win" he declared "This is Jesus. He beats everything!" )


So, back to the in-car discussion regarding the origins of fish fingers.
Which had moved on to other varieties of seafood. Some of which, if you have a speech delay, prove to be difficult to pronounce and comprehend.
Tubby and the Rabbit tried and tried, through their hysterics, to explain to Pants that they were CRAB balls, and were not little balls of poop, rolled up in crumbs. Even if they DID sound like "crap balls" when Pants said it!

And then of course Tubby wondered aloud if fish lost their fingers to make fish fingers, what part of the crab was removed to make crab balls............

And then someone mentioned prawn cocktails, and I turned the music up very VERY loudly!!

More Mother's Day Shenanigans!

Dinner time in our house is never predictable. Some days it is a quiet, solemn affair with everyone tucking into the meal and not even pausing to chat. Other days it's as you'd expect for a family meal - various conversations and verbal games occurring, some giggling and laughter and the regular protests of "But this is yuck!" and "I don't liiiiike it!". And more frequently than I'd like, it is noisy and crazy and the dining room becomes a chaotic jumble of laughter, chatter, shouting, kicking, peas, mash and visits to the Time Out spot!

For Mother's Day we really indulged and had KFC. Pants had seen an ad on television for "Mum's Banquet" and because the TV man said it would be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day, it would, of course, be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day.
And it included chocolate brownies.

So KFC it was. We brought our bucket of chicken home and sat down around our table. (Can I say even the concept of a "bucket of chicken " is wrong. Why would anyone need an entire bucket of chicken? Why not just a slightly larger box? Or tray? Why a bucket?!)

As we enjoyed the Colonel's secret recipe - which appeared to be predominantly a thick orange layer of batter stuck to the skelton of a dead chook - I mentioned that when I was a child, there was a rumour doing the rounds that KFC had used something other than chicken at times. I asked the kids to guess what it might have been, and told them the animal in question started with "R".
They guessed rats, roosters and rhinoceros before giving in and I told them it was rabbit. And likely to be untrue, and that their dinner was safe, and no this wasn't rabbit, and I knew because KFC are not allowed to sell rabbit and call it chicken and yes I was sure and now that they mention it I have no idea WHY I thought it was a good idea to share that little snippet from my childhood!

In a desperate effort to distract them, I suggested a game called "What's the Colonel Deep Frying THIS Time?". We took turns to think of an animal to "kentucky fry", give the starting letter to the others and then wait for someone to guess.

The Honey Girl is in Prep, and is reading beautifully but sometimes forgets or mixes up her letters. Her turns were a little challenging because I had to point out that while I appreciate her efforts to write the letter in the air with her finger - or indeed the entire word - I am not familiar with hieroglyphics and had no freaking idea WHAT she was attempting to write as a starting letter!

Pants was similarly challenging, as he has some speech challenges which sometimes slightly alter what he *thinks* is the starting letter, and what the actual starting letter is! "KFT" was, of course, Kentucky Fried Trocodile! And he was pretty dirty that we didn't get it!

When my turn came around, I thought they'd find Kentucky Fried Tarantula amusing. I'd recently seen a TV program where some children from a jungle village were out hunting for their version of takeaway - giant hairy spiders that were captured, killed and roasted on an open fire. Ever the parent-teacher, I thought my effort might lead to an interesting cultural lesson.

Instead, the game got way out hand. As he waited for his younger siblings to guess what the "T" stood for, Tubby started to giggle to himself. Had I glanced to see his face I'd have known immediately that his pre-teen mind was someplace it should not be and may have had a chance to salvage the game by redirecting his responses to appropriate suggestions that were of the animal kind. Instead, I asked him what was so funny.

"Kentucky Fried Todgers" he burst out with, and the table dissolved into giggles.
On his next turn, he almost turned purple in an attempt to control his laughter until he had blurted out "Kentucky Fried Turds" ... and the table dissolved into raucous laughter.

It took some serious threats, and some plate-clearing, dishwasher-stacking and teeth-brushing activities to regain control and make a final attempt to continue the game until everyone had had a turn.

In the interests of ensuring everyone feels content and involved, we occasionally stack the odds a little in such games. Especially towards the younger two players, who battle speech and literacy issues to participate and require a little extra assistance to respond correctly.

On one particular round everyone knew what the answer was, but it was Pant's turn to guess.
"It starts with G" Tubby reminded him
"It lives in Africa" the Rabbit offered
"It's got a loooong neck" the Honey Girl added, and we all stretched our necks up for Pants to see

He still looked puzzled, so we started to dance around the kitchen in a conga-line, singing "Melman Melman Melman!" (from the movie "Madagscar", in case you're wondering how often my family spontaneously conga-line around the kitchen for no real reason!)

Suddenly Pants' face lit up, his eyes showed clear recognition and he started jumping up and down in his seat in excitement.
"I know! I know!" he shouted "It's gorilla!!!"

*sigh*

When we'd finally got the boy to utter the magic words "giraffe", we congratulated him on his efforts and moved on.
It was the Rabbit's turn next, and he had run out of superhero animals (we'd done kentucky fried bat, kentucky fried spider etc etc) He'd decided on shark this time, and while we all knew what the answer was, it was the Honey Girl's turn to guess.

Being the caring and kind big brother that he is, the Rabbit tried hard to give his little sister a good chance. He started to "swim" around the kitchen, with his teeth bared and snapping and his arms above his head forming a very obvious dorsal fin.
His sister still looked a little unsure so he began to hum the Jaws theme (I have NO idea how he knows the Jaws theme, I might add!) He got louder and louder and more and more shark-like and fierce, until he "swam" up and stopped, with a snap of his teeth, in front of her.

The Honey Girl eyed him closely, raise one eyebrow and asked "Snail?"

At about this point it came to my attention that the Boombah was no longer participating in the game, and was suddenly nappy-free and coming from the direction of my bedroom.
I scrambled up from the table and ran towards my room demanding the toddler tell me if he "wa-hooed in Mummy's room? We don't wa-hoo on Mummy's bed, ok? You can wa-hoo in the toilet, but no wa-hooing in Mummy's bed!"

Again, my children dissolved into fits of giggles and I found myself wondering what on earth these small people have DONE to me, that I'd have not only spent my evening in such a way but that I had enjoyed it as much as they had.

And where on earth the word "wa-hoo" had come from, and why my children thought it related to bodily functions??!



B is for "Blessed".
Or Bampire Bat, apparently.

Or boobie, but we're not allowed to go there!